Your girlfriend is a manananggal. Qumra Agbayani is much too comfortable with this fact. She wants you to see her rip her rib cage from her pelvis, snapping her spine in half. She likes seeing you vomit from the rotting men she brings home to eat. In fact, she'll beg you to play with her intestines like you play with her hair. Sometimes you wonder why you're still with her.

And she's so pale for a full-blooded Mestiza. All she says is that she was born under the moon, hence her name and pale flesh. Every bruise is as apparent as a grape on a porcelain plate. She won't talk about her father, mother, or childhood. She's an enigma, albeit a gorgeous and dangerous one.

She crawls back through the opened window and reattaches herself to the bloody, sprawling mess on your shared bed. Stretching and groaning, she crawls over to you and nudges you. The warm redness of the blood smears on your cheek and dribbles its way down to your collarbone, and she decides to lick it off. A shame to waste a perfectly good drink. Besides, she likes the taste of your skin. It doesn't remind her of anything masculine—you're perfect in your soft body. She finds herself wanting to sink her teeth in you, but she reminds herself that good girls don't gnaw on their girlfriends like a feral dog. Good girls bite very, very lightly.

The nuzzling and nipping continues until she sees you stir from your sleep. Qumra lays her head down on your chest and wraps her arms around your waist. Gore still leaks from her midsection, but she figures it'll just keep the two of you cozy and warm. Tugging on a strand of your hair, she pouts up at you. "Gwapa," she mumbles into your sternum. "Wake up, baby ko. I just ate and I'm full. Now I'm sleepy and quiero cuddles, mahal."